Ordinary
by cowbellgalore
Summary: England/France: They didn't get drunk, they didn't do it and they didn't regret it later. Arthur finds it all very wrong. -human names-


**For the challenge cycle on the what_the_fruk lj comm. I honestly don't know what this is. I just wanted to enter something into the cycle and this just came out. I don't know what I was trying to do with this, just hope it's idk, warm and fuzzy or something**

-

Arthur wakes in the afternoon, still tired from the night before.

He rolls out of bed, literally, and falls onto the floor so hard his head starts spinning like he has a hangover. He doesn't, but the throbbing and the regret is enough to convince himself to stay off the whiskey he hadn't been downing for a while.

Once he's off the ground and standing, Arthur glares down at Francis.

The bastard is still in bed, blankets kicked off in the middle of the night so his legs stick out askew. The hairy legs against his zig-zag stripy checked bedspread makes Arthur's head spin and his heart beat faster and he isn't sure which is more nauseating.

He curses Francis under his breath for not having sex with him the previous night.

For stumbling into Arthur's apartment straight from the meeting and completely skipping the pub so they were both sober and completely aware of each other.

For not doing like everyone else had and stayed in a hotel because the last time he did so they were still scraping the 'substances' off the ceiling weeks later and he did not like the treatment.

For insisting that he wanted to share Arthur's bed for one night because the mattress on the floor Arthur so graciously lent him had springs sticking up every which way and winning their argument by stating that he'd never let Arthur hear the end of his sore back.

For stripping to briefs, not the nude and cuddling up unconsciously to Arthur as he slept and Arthur spent most of the night with his body stiff as a board.

Damn it all to hell. Francis was supposed to be the perfect example of a man mothers warned their daughters about.

Yet the previous night had ended with no alcohol, no sex and no remorse.

It was all very _wrong_. Arthur has the whole circle of _fight, drink, fight, fuck, regret it in the morning_ memorised that the kink in the loop was starting to drive him a little mad.

Arthur flinches when Francis turns in bed, taking the sheets with him so he resembles the centrefold hiding under Arthur's bed. He half expects France to smile coyly up at him and crook a finger to coax him back into bed and make up for the lack of action last night. Instead, Francis just looks sleepy.

"Bonjour," is his greeting, as he gingerly opens his eyes and rubs the sleep from them. "What time is it?"

"Earlier than you usually get up, you lazy arse," is Arthur's reply, along with a pillow to Francis' face.

Francis easily bats it away, slightly surprised at the lack of power behind the throw.

He sits up with a frown on his face. "You are one to talk, _ branleur_." He shuffles out from under the sheets and Arthur is impressed that his 'unwanted' companion is able to move so early in the afternoon. "I should go and talk to Ludwig about yesterday, I'm already late," Francis says, and Arthur nods in agreement, for once.

They move in silence for once, awkwardly dancing about each other, Francis trying to untangle himself from the sheets and Arthur trying to find Francis' clothes. Arthur wants Francis to move faster, but holds his tongue when he remembers how long Francis took the last time he asked him to hurry up.

He'd spent three hours waiting for Francis to get out of the bathroom and nearly threw his tattered version of 'The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe' at his head when he found out the bastard had been sitting on the rim of the tub for two hours just to piss Arthur off.

But as was always with Arthur's luck, Francis trips on the sheets and lands face first on the bed under the blasted linen he was escaping from and Arthur slips on Francis' pants and ends up on his bum with his back uncomfortably crashing into the side of the bed.

"Ow…" he mutters under his breath, head still throbbing slightly and too tired to make an attempt to get up.

He wants Francis to leave already. He wants Francis to get out of his house, get out of his country and go back to his stupid frog-land where he'd be far away from Arthur and far away from his mind that he seemed to be constantly invading.

He's just about to voice his desires when an arm flies out from under the blankets and rests on his chest.

"Arfur." Francis' voice is muffled. "_Rosbif_, I am hungry."

Arthur resits the urge to snap and calms down, convincing himself that it would only make his headache worse. "If you get out of my bed and out of my house, you can go get some of those frilly pastries or something."

"But they're English." Arthur can just hear the pout in Francis' voice and it takes all his willpower not to 'hmph' childishly.

Instead, he grits out a response. "Well, we are in England, oh intelligent frog." He clears his throat of the many strings of insults threatening to bubble out. "But if you get up, maybe you can find some stupid French bakery."

Francis sticks his head out from under the covers and rests his chin on Arthur's shoulder. He heaves a sigh, moving the hand that Arthur had forgotten to remove from his chest in languid circles. "Perhaps I will get something later."

And Arthur is only mildly disappointed that Francis isn't leaving and completely taken aback that he actually doesn't mind Francis staying, _wants_ him to stay. It makes him scared, frightened, that after one night that's out of the ordinary for them he's started to realise he has… _feelings_.

Quickly he erases his train of thought, vowing not to go down that path. He had talked to Alfred about it before and was entirely not happy with his American friend's exclamation in a _very public place_ that "You care about him!".

He wasn't about to admit that okay, _maybe_ he found Francis a little attractive last night in those jeans that Arthur called 'daggy' and poked fun at for the majority of the night.

And _maybe_ having Francis cuddle up to him and mumble nonsensical nothings into his shirt while he dreamt was endearing in an awkward way between two unstable adults.

And _maybe_ the day wasn't turning out too bad, even after waking up next to a half naked Francis and watching him wake up like he's slipped right out of a porn movie and letting him draw silly circles into his chest as he sits against the bed on the floor like some drunkard who hasn't even had any alcohol-

Arthur turns his head to Francis, so fast it startles the unsuspecting man and closes his eyes. He crashes their lips together, forcefully but gently, like a cat rubbing its body against its owner's leg. He pulls the covers over their heads so he and Francis are in the darkness together, their kiss hidden from the rest of the room.

Francis regains himself and responds, circles stopping and lets his hand rest on Arthur's pectoral. He's surprised and unsure of the intention behind the action, but he welcomes it. He pushes forward awkwardly; his angle not the best for a drawn out make out- but it's not that, is it?

It's just a press of lips. No hands in pants, no groping or grasping, just a press of lips under last night's abused sheets that Arthur initiates. It's not a make out, there isn't even any tongue.

And Arthur isn't sure why there isn't any tongue, or hands in pants or groping or grasping or gripping or gasping. It's scaring him a little that he's okay with this, this pressing of lips and nothing really more.

He pulls back suddenly and wonders if France is okay with this as well. Francis is usually the one who sticks his tongue in Arthur's mouth and puts his hands down pants and gropes and grasps and grips and gasps, so it couldn't be possible he would be okay with something so 'vanilla' as a press of lips, right?

Arthur comes to the conclusion that even if Francis was okay with it, he's not going to find out, because he's going to forget about what didn't happen last night. He's going to forget that they didn't have sex and that it was okay and that he saw Francis so vulnerable in the morning and that he initiated a press of lips with the blasted man.

So he opens his eyes and fakes a gagging reflex. "Yuck, you taste disgusting."

But it seems Francis is already catching on because his reaction is too fast for him to be clueless. He just pretends to spit and rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Disgusting. Arthur germs. I may just have to wash my mouth with some tea."

Francis gets up then, faster than Arthur had and hides his smile all the way to the kitchen.

Arthur on the other hand, sits on the floor and wallows in denial and contemplates the implications of Francis saying 'tea' and not 'coffee'.

-

They take tea on Arthur's balcony, once Francis has put on his jeans from last night and Arthur has put on something more decent than his pyjamas. They had awkwardly passed each other in the kitchen, not looking at each other and not fighting, just moving around stiffly.

The sky's already darkening as they lean against the railing, cups and saucers already forgotten on the table. The city's coloured by the pink and orange hue of the sunset, street lights below flickering on one by one.

Arthur and Francis stand in silence and it unnerves Arthur.

They're meant to be fighting. He was meant to get drunk last night, they were supposed to have sex last night, and they were supposed to regret it earlier in the day and spend the rest of their lives feeling bitter.

Because that's what they always do, and last night and this particular day are out of the ordinary.

"This is… different," he says before he can stop himself and immediately wants to take it back. Now they're going to have to talk about what didn't happen and what _did_ happen.

"_Oui_, it is." And Francis doesn't make any further comment.

Arthur feels both relieved and annoyed that _bloody bastard, we just had one of our most 'normal' moments and that's all you've got to say?_

And then one of Francis' fingers is loosely entwining with one of his that is loosely resting at his side.

Arthur thinks Francis is going to pull him into a tangle of limbs, but he doesn't, just lets their fingers dangle entwined in the small space between their bodies.

And he doesn't say anything.

It's not ordinary. They're supposed to be fighting over stupid things. Fighting over how Francis invaded Arthur's bed last night, over how Francis can't wake up at a decent hour, how Arthur's hospitality skills in the area of food is lacking.

Not standing on Arthur's balcony after waking up like a relatively normal pair and staring out at the city with their fingers hooked together while the last bit of tea in their cups goes cold.

Francis breaks their awkward silence, just before Arthur has the chance to. "I quite like this."

Arthur swallows, because he quite likes this too. But he was just about to comment about how _annoying_ Francis' sleeping habits are so that they somehow go back to being their usual antagonistic selves. So when he answers with a difficult "Me too", the both of them are surprised.

They settle into uncomfortable silence again.

And then Arthur untangles his finger from Francis' and brushes it against jean clad hips, hooking it in a belt loop and tugging slightly.

When the finger prods up at the exposed skin of Francis' tummy, he gets the idea.

"_Rosbif_, your city is absolutely terrible." He points down at the streets at a couple holding hands as they walked. "Fornication before the sun goes down? Absolutely terrible!"

Arthur splutters and huffs and _knows_ what Francis is doing and thanks him, very quietly, in his head. "What the- How can- What in blazes are you talking about, man? That's absolute rubbish! If anything _your_ city is the festering pit of indecent exposure."

And they go on like that until the sun is completely set and it gets too chilly. When they go inside they're so worked up from fighting, like they usually are, that they fall in a heap of naked arms and legs and tongues onto the couch.  
Francis groans. "Ludwig is going to be so angry."

"Frog," Arthur says when Francis slides into his lap and does what they should have done the night before, "today never happened." He's only just getting comfortable with the idea that perhaps his unexplainable want for Francis to be near is staying with him and he's not about to say it out loud.

There's understanding behind that stupid smug smile Francis gives. "Alright," and then both of them are lost in the passionate haze.

And they'll wake up tomorrow, naked and sweaty on the couch and shove off each other and call each other names that have more bite than the previous day. They'll stomp around each other, throw things at each other at the next meeting and then get drunk and have sex.

Because that's what they always do.

But after this day where Arthur is not drunk and Francis is not horny and the two of them are _feeling_ things for each other-

-sharing tea without squabbling and hooking fingers together will become ordinary.

-

**idkkkkk ლ(ಠ﹏ಠლ)**


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